


Mens Rea

by lonelywalker



Category: Spider-Man (Movieverse)
Genre: Age Difference, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-19
Updated: 2011-04-19
Packaged: 2017-10-18 09:21:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/187364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelywalker/pseuds/lonelywalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Norman promotes a friendship between his son and Peter because he's hoping to seduce young Mr. Parker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mens Rea

1.

There was laughter here, once, in the days when he returned home before dark, and left only after the sun had risen. Then, there had been photographs on the walls alongside the masks – fleeting smiles of long ago – before he had taken them down and painted over the scars left by sunlight. Perhaps Harry has them now, rescued from storage. He hasn’t ventured beyond the door to Harry’s room in years. It had seemed wise. Teenagers, with all their noxious fumes and abrasive noise, need to be well contained.

Harry. God. If only there were some kind of manual for predicting the mechanisms of the boy’s brain. He should be the dutiful son, the genius in training, eager to make his mother proud of him. Instead he spends his day languishing in a public school – the only one that will take him – and copying homework from some bright kid he calls his friend. Well, perhaps there’s more to that than fear of failing test scores. _Peter Parker_. He had sounded like an imaginary friend the first time Harry had mentioned him, a story made up to please the old man. At the time Harry might well have done anything to get himself back into his good books. There had been pocket money and cars and women and prestige at stake after all. And Peter Parker was too good to be true.

“Great honor to meet you, sir.”

So, yes, perhaps it was a little curiosity that had made him follow Harry on a school trip, just to see this Parker boy in the flesh. He hadn’t seemed very interesting: shabby clothes, glasses, acne, a little flabby around the edges. Most definitely not Harry’s usual caliber of friend. Peter Parker very evidently wouldn’t have known a polo stick if it had whacked him in the face. Gradually, Norman had started to approve.

“Harry tells me you're quite the science wiz. You know, I'm something like a scientist myself.”

Oh, yes, of course it had been a trick, to see if the boy really had brains, or whether he merely had the edge in chemistry class over Harry which, sad to say, would never have needed a Herculean effort. He had been able to sense Harry’s sigh of disapproval just a few feet away, and the first stirrings of some oncoming argument about boring his friends to tears. And, yes, that would have been true with some of the old crowd, who valued their parents and older relatives for nothing more than their trust funds and checking accounts. Peter Parker was a very different prospect.

“I read all your research on nanotechnology. Really brilliant.”

He’s had his share of ass-kissing, of course. He’s a wealthy, powerful man, and many people come to him hoping to pay him compliments in return for favors – employment, transfers, raises. None of them have been teenage boys with nothing to gain, and none of them have _ever_ claimed to have read the stacks of dusty research that even Harry hasn’t bothered to investigate.

“ _All_?” Norman had been tempted to ask, but it would have been a futile question. There had been such simple shining honesty in the boy’s eyes. In contrast to Harry – in contrast to most of the people he has ever met – Peter Parker had seemed incapable, in that moment, of being false. Norman had felt himself smiling in approval. It had been a slightly baffling sensation.

Harry had been very obviously relieved when a teacher had called to demand that the two boys catch up to the rest of their group entering the museum, presumably scared that, otherwise, they would have torn off to inject heroin or listen to rave music or whatever else teenage boys are expected to do when not constrained by authority figures.

“Hope to see you again,” Norman had said to Peter. It had been no mere polite platitude. It would be nice for Harry to have a friend, one not bound to him by class or money, one who could perhaps encourage Harry to study and to actually graduate from this, the last school that will ever take a chance on him. And, he had admitted to himself, it would be nice to have someone to talk to at the dinner table – someone to talk to about _real_ things, not horror movies or motorsports or the validity of party politics.

He had watched them as they had walked away, bags slung over shoulders, already talking about something else. He had been left alone on the sidewalk, before turning back to his car and his driver. There had been a litany of appointments to keep, but he had paid them little attention. Something else had been playing on his mind.

Norman takes one of his masks down from the wall, idly tracing its carved lines with a finger. _Peter Parker_. There’s something he wants from this boy, something he needs, some twinge of desire in the pit of his stomach he has yet to decipher. Were Emily still alive, still illuminating the darkness as she read paperwork by lamplight, he would expect a soft inquiry and an invitation to share his thoughts. This is the first time he has ever been glad that the room remains silent, and leaves his conscience at rest.

He remembers her advice once, quoting Latin when he was troubled by the near-disastrous results of one of his experiments. _Actus non facit reum nisi mens sit rea_. Perhaps, even in his memories, he fumbles the pronunciation, but he remembers the meaning. The act alone will not make a person guilty… unless the mind is also guilty. His intentions, then, had been good. The mistake had been an accident.

And now?

Norman replaces the mask carefully on its hook.

_It’s all right. He doesn’t know._

 

2.

He’s been missing a lot of days, lately. It’s nothing new. Harry used to rebuke him for forgetting appointments, birthdays, class plays, but gave up on him a long time ago. Now there are the markers of a familiar simmering resentment, but no reminders, and no notes left on the fridge. Work has always threatened to consume him. In recent days, and with recent stresses regarding military contracts, it appears to have obliterated the rest of his life entirely. He _hurts_ much more than he used to – getting old, perhaps, although he feels stronger and more alert. There are gaps in his memory spanning hours, but he never seems to be tired. It might bother him more, if he had the time to think about it.

He’s here today, however, on a day Harry no doubt assumed he would forget along with all of the others. His only son is graduating from high school. It’s not a day he ever thought he would see, and not one to be missed.

“It's not the first time I've been proven wrong,” he tells Harry, and the hint of pride in his voice makes even Harry seem to believe him. He wants to say more, but the words won’t come. He can hardly presume to speak for those who are absent.

Sadly, Emily is not the only family member whose absence casts a long shadow over proceedings. Over the last few weeks and months, Norman has caught glimpses of Peter alone, troubled, staring into space, when he and Harry were attempting to cram for exams. Had he been more of a model father, he might have said something then. Once, he had decided to go over to him, to say whatever he could, but then Harry had returned with sodas and chips, and that decision, too, had been lost.

He turns to Peter now. “I know this has been a difficult time for you. But I want you to try to enjoy this day. Commencement, the end of one thing, the start of something new.” Internally, he knows he sounds like he’s making yet another falsely optimistic speech to shareholders. Norman takes a breath and attempts to sound – to feel – a little more human. “You're like a brother to him. That makes you family. And if you ever need anything, just give me a call.”

Peter seems to appreciate the sentiment. It’s hard to tell with him – he’s such a polite, bright, well-brought-up young man. Harry’s displeasures are all too evident. As Peter’s aunt begins speaking to him, Norman wonders how much of his pleasant exterior is a façade. He must be tearing apart inside after the death of his uncle – a man who was, for all intents and purposes, the only father in his life. And yet…

Once, visiting the house for a study session with Harry, books strewn across tables and the floor, Peter had asked about Norman’s collection of masks. Perhaps he had done so merely to make conversation, to break the awkward silence when Harry had all too obviously ignored his father by sticking his nose in a suddenly fascinating book. But Norman had been able to smile, and nod, and explain the history of various items while Peter asked intelligent questions, and smiled back. Norman had felt an immense relief in those moments of dealing with a boy – a man – with no agenda, and no animosity towards him. Perhaps Peter knows more about masks than he would care to tell.

After the graduation there is coffee, and talk that starts off with some of the greater themes – ambition, employment, housing – and dwindles down to the usual small talk. Norman warms his fingers against his mug, and valiantly resists the temptation to look at his watch and excuse himself, as he would from almost any other situation. His cellphone is most determinedly off. Let his secretary deal with the calls, however urgent, for a few hours.

This is supposed to be another opportunity to talk with Peter, to share their common bonds of science and loss. There is, however, a feeling of disappointment. In the aftermath of Ben Parker’s death, Norman had reached out, attempting to be a friend and even something of a father figure to the boy. He still can’t make up his mind whether he’s pleased that Peter is determined to stand on his own two feet. Even the suggestion that Peter call him if he ever needs anything seems to have been interpreted as something other than it was intended. As Harry talks about renting or buying an apartment in town, Peter shifts in his seat and makes perfectly valid points about wanting to support himself.

Norman sits back in his chair and considers the situation. It’s fine, really. He had been afraid that, after graduation, Harry would discard his study buddy, and that Peter would escape on a scholarship to some out-of-state university. Now it seems that the two boys plan to share an apartment while attending college here. He’ll probably see more of Peter than ever before. And as for that rejection of help? Well, he never wanted to be Peter’s _father_.

There’s something itching in his brain when he thinks this, some hint of further thoughts that disappears as he tries to reach out and identify it. In the end he simply relaxes and takes another sip of coffee as Peter’s aunt asks him how business is doing.

_It’s all right. He doesn’t know._

 

3.

He’s not black and blue the day after the World Unity Festival, but he feels as though he might be. The mirror detects no bruises marking his skin, but something deeper aches. Harry is in the hospital, objecting vociferously, but being made to stay for observation on a concussion that just might be something worse. The bills are no trouble, of course, and they help to assuage a niggling feeling of guilt that has been lingering ever since he heard the news of the deaths of the entire board of directors.

There are endless rationales behind it. He was angry at them – he wished them dead – and then they died at the hand of some monster. It’s only a survivor’s guilt. He had felt the same way after Emily’s death, had felt the same way when Harry had told him of Ben Parker’s murder. It’s an all-too-familiar sense of _if only_ , and he can’t seem to shake it. Still, there’s no point in mourning men with no sense of morality, fairness, or common decency. His only cares now are for Harry’s wellbeing and… Norman pauses, caught in the motion of putting on his coat. He had been sure there was something else. But, no, it’s gone.

Going to work that morning seems pointless. There are notes of condolence to be sent out, of course, and more formal legal issues to be dealt with regarding the very real dissolution of the board. However, his assistant has already called to inform him that she is busily composing heartfelt messages to people neither of them know, and that the lawyers will have a report by tomorrow.

His plan had been to visit Harry at the hospital, to consult with doctors and, hopefully, to liberate him from the place before evening. However, he finds himself standing on the sidewalk in front of Harry’s apartment building, feeling horribly out of place with his expensively tailored suit. Had he walked? Norman glances around, but sees no evidence of his car. Well, perhaps he had. He seems to do so much on auto-pilot these days. He had intended to visit Harry, and that thought had taken him to Harry’s apartment, despite the fact that Harry is not there. The mind does indeed play tricks.

Norman considers flagging down a cab, but instead enters the building and takes the elevator up to the correct apartment. He’s been here before, after all, usually to harangue Harry, but sometimes in search of a little more meaningful conversation with his son’s flatmate. The door is closed, and he knocks, not too loudly. It’s quite possible that Peter is still asleep after the previous day’s horrors.

But Peter answers the door, looking tired but very definitely awake and dressed. His hair is still sticking up a little from what must have been a very recent shower. “Mr. Osborn,” he says, a little surprised. “Is Harry…?”

“Oh, he’s fine, Peter,” Norman replies after a slight pause. He had been surprised by the question. Still, after all this time, it’s “Mr. Osborn”, and Peter had assumed that the only possible reason for his visit could have been to bring dire news of Harry’s condition. “Just a concussion. He should get out today. Can I come in?”

Of course he can. The apartment is very definitely showing signs of habitation by two young men not expecting any imminent visits from Peter’s aunt. Norman takes off his coat, folds it, and lays it over the back of a chair, next to Harry’s crumpled and discarded shirt. The boy has never learned the value of a laundry basket. Peter is in no way any more neat, but at least his untidy textbooks, scattered across chairs and tabletops, have some educational purpose.

“I hear you took photographs of the incident yesterday. I hope you weren’t hurt.”

Peter grins, and seems a little nervous. “No, I, uh… I stayed pretty far away from any trouble. Thanks to a zoom lens. Were you there? I didn’t see you.”

“Fortunately not. I had a surprise meeting.” The lie feels like glass shards stabbing behind his eyes. Norman winces and attempts to massage his temples with a thumb and forefinger. “We all could have been killed.”

Perhaps Peter interprets his pain as shock over the loss of men who were, up to a few days ago, his friends. “Can I get you something? We’ve got coffee…”

He nods without thinking and then, seeing Peter make for the kitchen, halts him with a word. “No, Peter, don’t.”

It’s awkward, then, standing there, watching Peter have no idea what to say or do. Norman blinks fog away from his eyes. He can’t remember the last time he slept. “I wish I could tell you why I’m here. Things have been very… odd for me in the last few years, since my wife died. I know you must feel the same way about your Uncle.”

Something in Peter loosens up at that confession, and his frozen stance regains some fluidity as he turns and goes to make coffee anyway. “For some reason I almost expected to see him at the door just now,” Peter says in a deliberately light tone, as if he’s afraid that Norman will think him an idiot. “I just know that he’d be worried about me too after what happened yesterday.” He plugs in the kettle and leans back against the worksurface, waiting for the water to boil. “He was always ready to listen to me. I don’t think I ever appreciated that enough.”

Peter smiles, a shy, half-daydreaming smile, no doubt thinking about younger days spent with his aunt and uncle.

“You were very lucky,” Norman says. “I doubt I ever gave Harry that kind of attention.” He’s not sure if he’s fishing for denials and compliments. To his credit, Peter gives neither.

His voice is quiet, now. “Harry’s still around. You can still change things. You can make a difference. My uncle told me once that great power comes with great responsibility. I think you know more about that than almost anyone.”

He should be right. Peter is only a college student, with no responsibilities but taking care of himself, whereas Norman has a corporation and, more importantly, a son. Yet he wonders what weight lies on Peter’s shoulders, and behind what mask he is now hiding.

The kettle clicks off, the water boiled, before he can think of anything to say. Peter drops heaped spoonfuls of coffee into mugs, and doesn’t ask about milk or sugar. Chances are they have none. Harry isn’t the type to go shopping for groceries, and Peter likely doesn’t have the money. Norman feels the crackle of dollar bills in his pocket, and thinks about leaving them under Harry’s shirt for Peter to find.

“Do you ever think that we are all two people?” he asks, taking the hot mug from Peter’s outstretched hand. “One born of our intentions, and one of our actions? Some have the best intentions in the world, that are never fulfilled. Some are the opposite.”

Peter holds his mug thoughtfully. He doesn’t seem particularly thirsty. “ _Mens rea_ ,” he says. “A guilty mind. Even when your actions are true, a guilty mind can condemn you.”

Norman flinches. “You’re not responsible for your uncle’s death, Peter. It’s natural to feel as if you’re to blame, but there was nothing you could have done.”

“No?” Peter’s gaze and tone are surprisingly sharp and strong.

“No.”

He wishes, later, that what followed could have been lost along with his memories of the previous day. But he all too vividly remembers the clunk of his still-full mug against the table, the touch of Peter’s cheek and hair under his fingers, and coffee-flavored breath in his mouth. He remembers wondering if Peter is going to spill his own coffee on the floor, or if the door is going to burst open, or if he planned this all along. It’s not romantic. He’s lost romance, along with time and responsibility. But it’s need, and for this reason – and for only this reason, he assumes – Peter makes no attempt to pull away.

Afterward, he looks Peter in the eyes, and Peter looks in his, even though the mug must be burning his fingers. There’s no horror there. Norman would venture a guess that neither of them is even surprised. But neither is there a suggestion that they should lock the door, tear off their clothes, and take it any further. They have come far too well attuned to their roles of solitary pain and guilt.

“Thank you for the coffee, Peter,” Norman says, finally. He hasn’t touched it.

Peter nods. “Tell Harry I asked about him.”

And he leaves, coat over his arm, just as consumed by loss as when he had arrived. It’s only in the elevator that the possible import of Peter’s words starts to trouble him. _Harry_. He can’t even begin to justify his actions to himself. Explaining them to Harry seems impossible. It’s almost as if he and Peter have been living in a very different world these days.

By the time he has reached the sidewalk, the sting of wind across his face, a strange calm has come over him, and there is no more thought of panic. Norman hails a passing cab, and climbs in, casting a glance up at the empty apartment window.

 _Actus non facit reum nisi mens sit rea_ , he reminds himself. Everything will be all right.

Peter doesn’t know.


End file.
